Almost Real
by darthsydious
Summary: Not enough love for our favorite PA, Anthea. She's good friends with Molly, and when she's had enough scotch, talks about her difficult childhood. Mythea featured. Sherlolly hinted at.


_Based on the song "Almost Real" from the musical "The Bridges of Madison County"_

* * *

Anthea liked Molly. She was a good person, a genuinely good person who tried to see things on the positive side. Anthea, seeing Sherlock take a liking to Molly, took the pathologist under her wing. Anthea did have some practice in dealing with a Holmes (she was married to one after all). Once a week (didn't matter which night) they went for drinks, Anthea helped Molly figure out a game-plan to get Sherlock off his bum and admit he felt something for the pathologist. Anthea also got her fill of girl talk, (the women in MI6 are surprisingly ungossipy, and while Anthea did know the value of a secret, god, sometimes she did just want to talk about that slag skirt who kept trying to flirt with Mycroft). Molly was good for girl-talk. She was a good friend, better, or even best in some cases, ("No, but what if I am pregnant?!" Anthea had sobbed one night until Molly snuck her into St. Barts and ran a blood test). They got up to some rather amusing shenanigans, some of which included naked wading in the fountains at Buckingham Palace, tying Mycroft's ties to the flagpole at Parliament, and hiding Billy the Skull from Sherlock in Molly's bra drawer (Anthea's reasoning was that he'd never look there. So far, Billy sat comfortably in Molly's fresh-washed b-cups).

Molly could also talk about the serious stuff. Rare nights Anthea needed a good cry and Mycroft sometimes didn't know what to do when she cried, so Anthea turned to her friend. Molly was a good listener, and Anthea was grateful.

"You say you're Jewish," Molly said one night, well into her cups. "But you _look_ Italian."

"I _am_ from Italy," Anthea shrugged. "And yeah, I am Jewish too, but that was a long time ago."

"You mean you don't-" Molly waved her hand, trying to speed up her thought process. "You don't do the whole 'High Holy Days' and stuff like that?"

"Privately," Anthea nodded. She reached for the bottle; if she was going to reminisce about her past tonight she'd need another couple fingers of scotch first.

"So where'd you grow up?" Molly asked. Anthea swallowed the burning liquor with barely a wince.

"Napoli," she answered. Molly sighed, delighted. "It wasn't that nice. We were poor, so, less nice than you think," Anthea pursed her lips, thinking. "My village wasn't exactly one you'd see in a travel photo, you know, it was nice, but not a rich one."

"You sound so English though, even if you are from Italy," Molly blinked with a frown.

"Mycroft taught me quite a bit," Anthea replied. The accent of her youth was long gone, though the language she grew up speaking was still what she spoke best. "I grew up around a lot of gang wars, mobsters, that sort of thing." Molly's eyebrows rose, surprised. "My grandmamma raised my sister and me, she said that our village was like World War Two all over again, she didn't like it," Anthea was somber, remembering her grandmother then. A shrunken old woman, gentle but firm, Anthea's grandmother did her best with her grandchildren, despite the chaos around them. "My sister and I-"

"You have a sister?!" Molly gasped. "Where is she?"

"Italy," Anthea said. The answer rolled off her tongue automatically. Lying about her sister was easy; she'd long ago learned it was simpler.

"What's she like?" Molly asked. "Does she work for a big government official too?" Anthea couldn't' picture her sister in a government building, working for someone like Mycroft. She was too wild, too impetuous, and too irresponsible.

"We're nothing alike," Anthea said finally, realizing Molly was waiting for her to answer. She unscrewed the cap from the bottle, tossing it on the table before taking a swig. "I remember-" she handed the bottle to Molly who took a drink. "Chiara, that's my sister's name, Chiara wore tight-fitting sweaters, always unbuttoned, here," she pointed to her own button-down blouse, to her breastbone. "She loved attention, anywhere she could get it, and she used to tell me how I ought to learn from her, to be prepared for when I was old enough to date. She never…" Anthea paused, memories flashing through her mind's eye. Holding the edge of the coffee table, she was still for a moment. "She would act as if no one cared, she used to laugh at me, I used to be afraid of the boys," she smiled bittersweetly. "I preferred books and quiet days to her wild dances and ongoing 'romances'." Arms wrapped around herself, Anthea sighed a little, a sudden memory coming to the fore.

"What?" Molly asked. Anthea smiled, genuinely now.

"I used to dream of a flat on Siena, right on the market square, just a little one, with a chair right by the window, my books and a kettle, as far from Chiara as I could be, I used to dream of it so often, I could almost see it, it was almost real to me."

That was all the reminiscing Anthea would do for that evening. When she got home, she tossed and turned in her sleep, her dreams plagued by the memory of her sister, her cruel laughter, bitter and cold. She awoke to Mycroft soothing her arms, pressing kisses to her forehead, mumbling quietly to her. She turned into his embrace, sighing deeply, letting the memories go.

Molly never brought up the subject of Anthea's childhood, and the PA was grateful, though certain that Molly wanted to know the rest of the story, why Anthea did not speak of her family, why she hated her sister so much, and why she left Italy at all to come all the way to England. It wasn't until several months later, one of their girls' nights in that Anthea spoke again of her childhood.

"I was almost married in Italy," she blurted. Molly looked up from admiring her own engagement ring (finally, Sherlock had proposed, and gave the sweet pathologist a modestly sized rock that Anthea declared to be a 'gezhunteh ring').

"You were?" Molly gasped, momentarily forgetting her ring. "To who?"

This time, Anthea smiled, and she left her glass alone. The face that appeared in her memory was beautiful, or to her it was, his smile was sweet and it reached his eyes.

"Paulo," she said after a moment. "He lived down the hill, he had silver eyes and hair, hair my grandmamma used to say 'darker than a coal bin'. He had- he had massive hands," she looked at her slender fingers, remembering how small hers had looked in his. "His hands used to tremble whenever he saw me. I was only sixteen," she flushed a little at the memory. Molly smiled, seeing how much it moved Anthea.

"What about Chiara, I'm surprised someone like her didn't try to steal him away," she teased at last. Anthea shook her head immediately.

"Oh no, Paulo wasn't for her, she said he was dull, too dumb for her. She used to tell me I'd end up a farm wife if I married him. Too exhausted and numb for 'living'." She smirked. "She'd try and get me to go to the old servicemen's club, the mobs used it for meetings and parties." her eyes grew distant then, soft and misty. "Paulo proposed to me in the middle of winter, and we made plans for a spring wedding, and then we'd move to Ancona, right on the beach. We'd have the ocean only steps away from our home," she took the glass Molly held out to her, drinking gratefully. "We talked about it as if we already had it, as if…"

"Almost real?" Molly asked softly and Anthea nodded, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

"Almost."

The room was quiet for a moment. Molly's cat, Toby, wandered into the living room, the bell on his collar tinkling with every step he took.

"The village I lived in, it used to set off the air raid sirens, when the mobs were fighting," Anthea said, finally disturbing the quiet. "They were to warn everyone to stay off the streets, until everything was safe," her hands trembled. "Chiara went dancing on those nights, she'd go to the old service men's club where the gangs would meet. Chiara," her laugh was sudden and bitter. "She didn't care about either gang, she had no sides, she liked to tease the mobsters sons," Anthea pushed her glass away, feeling tears sting her eyes. "Paulo went looking for her, every time, to bring her back safe to grandmamma. One night, the sirens didn't stop, and my grandmother was beside herself. Paulo went looking for her but…" a heavy sigh, and Anthea chewed the inside of her mouth. "He never came home."

"What about Chiara?" Molly asked softly, eyes wide. Anthea shrugged.  
"She came back in the morning; no worse for wear, grandmother threw her out, ashamed. Chiara told me, she told me- how Paulo had tried to break up a fight, two members of the mobs had been fighting over her, and he tried to stop it, he'd been shot." Anthea could still see her sister, standing in their grandmother's tiny parlor.

_Her lipstick smeared, the rest of her make-up looking like she'd been out all night. Her clothing was wrinkled, as if hastily put back on. _

"_He was a fool," Chiara said with a shrug._

"_He was trying to protect you!" _

"_I don't need protecting." Chiara sniffed. "Those two boys fighting for me? Who cares? They're just boys, they wouldn't hurt me. They __want__ me."_

"_You don't even love them! I love Paulo! I loved him!"_

_Chiara looked steadily at her. _

"_Well then I hope now you've learned." _

"_Learned what?" _

"_That love is useless." With that, Chiara gathered her things and left. They learned years later that one of the mobster's sons had shot her, jealous that she was seen in the company of another man. _

"And that's when you left Italy?" Molly's soft voice broke through Anthea's thoughts and she looked up, startled for a moment. Slowly, she nodded.

"My grandmother sold almost everything she had to get me an education. I went to a University in Switzerland. I studied political sciences and attracted attention from several government officials who were looking for someone to intern. Every summer I went back home, to look after my grandmother. My last semester I received a letter and airfare, advising me to go home immediately, my grandmother was ill. By the time I got there, she'd died."

"Oh…" Molly felt tears rolling down her cheeks again. Anthea twisted the weathered ring on her right hand over and over and over again. The gold band with tiny faded forget-me-nots engraved all around used to sit on her grandmother's gnarled finger, her wedding ring. Taking a breath, Anthea spoke again:

"I visited her grave for weeks, praying she'd forgive me, hoping she was in peace. I stopped caring about my future. I'd sit at the harbor," Anthea swallowed thickly. "Watching all the ships come in and out," her eyes shut, she held her breath. "And then…"

Molly looked at her; the PA was lost in a memory, her expression caught between sadness and anticipation.

"And then I looked up and I saw an Englishman smile down at me," Anthea breathed at last, and she opened her eyes, the sight of Mycroft Holmes standing, his hand outstretched to her, umbrella on the crook of his other arm so vivid in her memory. "And I knew- I just knew if I took his hand, I could get away, I could be free."

"Was that when you married him?" Anthea shook her head.

"No, but I would have then and there, if he wished me to. He was the one who informed me of my grandmother's condition. He paid for her burial, saw to everything. He'd been pursuing me, to offer me a job. He wasn't-" she paused then, suddenly remembering the start of her and Mycroft's careers together. "He wasn't where he is today, you understand, everyone must start somewhere, and he needed a personal assistant, one who was unattached to family. He was impressed with my work in school, and if I finished my term, as soon as I graduated he'd have a job waiting for me." Anthea was almost smiling, remembering the leap in her heart, the fear of the unknown, but also the strength and fearlessness she saw in Mycroft Holmes' eyes.

_He was nothing like Paulo. He looked like he'd stepped out of a posh Savile Row advert. Clean-cut, lean, and steady hands. He was reserved, all ice where Paulo was warmth. But Anthea knew she could want to be at his side, she could love him, if he wanted her to, so long as he took her away from Italy, away from Chiara. She could see her new life so clearly, just out of reach, almost real. _

"How long before you two married?" Molly asked quietly. Anthea flushed, laughing.

"Quite some time. He is dedicated to his work, and I was avoiding romance simply because I didn't have the time for it. I was too busy learning how to be his PA. I was starting over, you see." Anthea recalled clearly, requesting permission to change her name. He'd smiled, handing over paperwork already filled out. She read the name he'd chosen and she nodded, approving. "There _were_ times we'd pretend to be married, to get into someone's good graces or simply avoid someone offering him escort services. That was when he used to do some legwork, before he had more people at his disposal, so to speak. All in all, almost fifteen years." Molly counted on her fingers, blinking.

"Four years, you've been married four years!" she realized. "Since before John even met Sherlock!"

"Oh yes," Anthea nodded. "Mycroft kept his own family life from me for almost eight years, up until he knew he could trust me. It wasn't until a year before we were married that I physically met Sherlock though. Our first year married, Mycroft and I spent it keeping Sherlock in rehab."

"And then he came to St. Barts…four months later John came to London-" Molly realized, shocked. "Golly…" Anthea smiled, squeezing her hand.

"I think that's enough for tonight," she reached for her phone, calling the driver to bring the car around. "I'm gonna go home, sleep off this magnificent scotch."

"Oo, don't forget Mycroft's cake, we made him cake, remember?" they both stood, and the liquor seemed to hit them then.

Not even bothering with her shoes, Anthea took the Tupperware from Molly, kissing her cheek.

"I'll see you later, love, thanks, really, this was- well it wasn't nice, but it's good to talk it out sometimes."

"Anytime," Molly said. "Bye, love you."

"Ta, you too," Anthea waved over her head, stumbling down the stairs, almost running into Sherlock. He took one look at her, cake in hand; coat and shoes on her arm and then gingerly slipped an arm around her waist, helping her to the waiting car. "Ta, Sherlock," she slurred, waving.

"Get some rest," he replied before knocking on the roof of the car. Anthea blinked, watching him turn to Molly's and jog up the steps.

Somehow, she got into the house without falling over. Depositing shoes, cake and coat in the fridge, she then took one look at the stairway and got down on all fours, deciding to play it safe. She'd made it to the shower when she heard Mycroft come upstairs. Seeing her half-dressed, trying to work the shower he stripped himself down before helping her, carefully undressing her, tossing clothes aside and set the water temperature just the way she liked it. Holding her upright under the spray, he washed her hair, wiped the day's make-up from her face. It was a rare privilege for him to take care of Anthea. It happened so infrequently, so Mycroft took his time, cherishing the moments when she truly needed him. Her cheek rested against his freckled shoulder as he rinsed her hair, careful not to get soap in her eyes. His voice was quiet and she smiled, listening as he spoke Yiddish, stumbling over one or two words. He frowned at her smile.  
"How do you say it, then?" he asked tartly and she'd repeat the word for him. "Well that's why you speak it and I don't," he sniffed.

"I like when you speak Yiddish," she kissed his nose, smiling. He bent then, embracing her properly before shutting off the water. Bundling her into one of the towels, Mycroft carefully dried her off before the chill in the room got to her. Afterwards she sat between his knees as he brushed lavender oil through her hair before deftly weaving it into a braid. "Do you ever want to go to Italy?" he asked softly. Her eyes opened slowly, but she didn't lift her head from his lap.

"No."

Her answer was always no. She only ever went on business, if his work required it. Mycroft knew her answer had not changed in the past ten years but he asked anyway, every once in a while. She hesitated this time though, and then looked at him.

"Thank you for asking all the same," she murmured. "Someday…maybe someday we can go." He nodded then, and he watched as she kissed his hand, pressing her cheek to it. She hoped that someday if she ever went back to Italy, her grandmother's house would be gone; she hoped the old serviceman's club was closed, and the air raid sirens were dismantled. Someday, she would let Mycroft take her there to see for herself, but until then, until she knew for certain she could pretend that they were all gone and her village was different. Perhaps there would be a vineyard growing where her grandmother's house once sat, perhaps the old servicemen's club was a book shop and the old air raid sirens piped out music from restaurants to amuse tourists while they waited for a table. She smiled at this thought, the idea so tangible that it _could_ have been real. Almost real would simply have to do for now.

She was almost asleep when she felt Mycroft tug her closer, burying his nose in the crook of her neck. She smiled, feeling him press a kiss there. She didn't quite know how, but he always seemed to know when she needed to be brought gently back to the present.

"Mustn't dwell on dreams," he murmured. She laced her fingers in his, squeezing gently.

"Even if they're lovely."

"Oftentimes the lovely ones are the most harmful." She didn't quite agree, but she understood what he meant. It didn't do to dwell on 'what-ifs' or 'might-be's'. He'd been telling her that since he brought her to England. Snuggling deeper into his arms, she sighed lightly. It wasn't the life she had ever envisioned for herself. It wasn't her flat in Siena, or the cottage on the beach, it was so much better, because it was real. Mycroft loved her, there was no 'almost' about his feelings for her. Mycroft Holmes rarely did things by halves, not if he could help it. That was, most definitely, the best of all.

In his arms, Anthea let go of her memories, listening as Mycroft spoke softly to her of the time he first saw her, when they first met, when their lives were forever changed.

"Are you happy?" He asked. She turned in his arms so he could see her face. Pressing a kiss to his collar she met his gaze.

"_You_ make me happy," another kiss. "Now talk about how I captured your heart some more." He smiled in the dark, cheeks reddening. Long into the night they whispered back and forth, remembering the first years of their time together. Anthea loved these times best, there was always a tidbit she managed to hide from him until now (the time in Russia she steamed his suit and tie using a tea-kettle). It was these nights that reminded Anthea of just how lucky she was, of how much she was loved and how dear her life was. The 'almost-real' memories were nice, and they kept her from thinking too hard on the bad ones, but real life, her life, was so much better.


End file.
